INT. BEDLAM POLICE STATION
Adrienne follows Constable Ash’s departure with a raised eyebrow, then toys with her scarf. An amused smile plays over her face as she wonders whether her pointed sarcasm has soared over the captain’s head, or if he is politely allowing it to pass.
When he mentions Sir Conan Doyle, her smile flattens.
As I recall, Mr Holmes often investigates independently. I personally find little about his work inspiring, but that is neither here nor there.
She looks about, the motions of her head somewhat exaggerated. After a moment, she seats herself in the nearest chair.
Crossing her legs, she reaches out to pluck the paper from the captain’s desk.
I should love to praise your men for their efforts and progress. I should also enjoy immensely an opportunity to tell you that this poorly named killer is not responsible.
She looks up at the Captain. Her lips are set in a dark frown, but her eyes carry a brightness that could almost be excitement.
Journalists know nothing, this I will say. But I don’t think they are wrong about this foul perpetrator.
She folds the newspaper and sets it gently aside. Her long fingers tap out a strange rhythm over the headline.
Charles was a fool, but part of his foolishness was in being over-prepared. My home is mere yards away from his. I saw the front door this very morning. Demolished, yes, but there are marks in the jamb. Axe marks, gentleman.